


There are No More of Us

by Butideasdontdie



Category: Hamilton- Miranda
Genre: Alexander is a trans man, Angst, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, Laurens is dead btw incase you didn't realize, M/M, Mourning, Other, Panic Attack, Polyamory, Sorry?, This really could be any era, Trans Character, canon character death, cuddling as comfort, mentions of disphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butideasdontdie/pseuds/Butideasdontdie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welp. I felt like writing angst. This sorta wrote itself. Annnnnd angst. </p><p>John Laurens is dead as is canon. His boyfriends are in mourning. Alex is having an exceptionally hard time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There are No More of Us

**Author's Note:**

> I like making myself sad apparently.

Alexander can't breathe.

Alexander can't feel.

Alexander can't _think_.

 

 

Everything is dark- dark as coal, or maybe dark as midnight; the pitch black night where no stars are shining and everything in your mind is broadcast onto the eerily blank night canvas. A dark that is suffocating, unbearably so.

 

He breathes in deep. Takes another gulp of air into his lungs, but no, he still isn't able to breathe- and it hurts, it fucking burns like a he's being electrocuted. He's breathing in, in, in, but not put- no, he never remembers to breathe out. 

 

Whats wrong? What happened? Why can't he remember?

 

Why, why, _why_?

 

He breathes in again and starts counting. 

 

In- un, deux, trois.

Out- quatre, cinque, six.

 

It doesn't work.

 

He tries again, in Latin this time.

 

In- unum, duo, tribus.

Out- quattuor, quinque, sex.

 

Still, his grip on reality is unsteady and his head is light and fuzzy- and, oh yeah, counting never did work for him. 

 

So so instead he lets go, let's the sobs wreck him as he clings to the  bathroom floor. He pays no mind to the sharp pain in his temple as his skull bangs harshly against the cabinets below the sink; pretends not to notice the trickle of blood from his split lip. 

 

His hands shake furiously, looking impossibly small under the furls of the hoodie he wears- _John's hoodie_ , his mind supplies.

But no; no, no, no, no, _no_ \- he won't think about that. Won't think about the man who had said he would always be there for Alex. Would always find him in the night when his breaths are few and far between, when his hands shake like leaves during a summer storm, when his head aches like it's been work on with a hammer. 

He says he isn't going to, but once the thoughts flood in there is no end. It is a constant onslaught of imagery flooding Alexander's mind, and it hurts. _God_ , does it hurt. Alex breathes out a slow, shuddering sigh, and for a moment it seems like maybe things are going to be okay, but then he looks down and sees the way the sleeves are just too long, how he is swimming in the sweater and- _oh god_ \- he remembers when John had first given him the old sweater. He remembers his smile, his words, the way he held Alex in his arms. 

 

Alex hurts all over, but it is a distant pain that is hidden by the pressing feeling of his heart- the feeling of something deep inside him being squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter over and over again. And it's _John, John, John_ \- and he doesn't realize how loud he is, how quiet the apartment is, how dark everything is, until it isn't. 

 

The ceiling fan in the bathroom is suddenly on, the dim light accompanying it a dull haze against Alexander's retinas. He squints for a second, sobs hitching in his throat as his arms come around to encompass his admittedly small frame. So fucking small. Too small. 

 

John had helped him through the disphoria, his mind reminds him, and then the onslaught is returning. He hardly notices the figures standing in the doorway, the sad whispers, the shared looks of mourning and worry. Worry, worry, worry. 

 

Arms- ones that are not his own- soon wrap around his body. They are strong, dark and full, unclothed and warm against Alexander's shivering skin. He cries out again, but now he has a shoulder to bury himself into. He isn't quite sure who it is- surely either Hercules or Lafayette- but no cares little. It's comfort, and he's greedy for it. 

 

" _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ ," he begins chanting (more to himself than anything else), but the words are easily muffled by the skin under his mouth. He's being shushed either way, heavenly warm fingers brushing along his scalp as he is lifted from the cold, cold floor and carried somewhere darker and warmer. Safer. Calmer. Sounder. 

 

The whispers are back, soft and delicate, and for a second Alex wonders if he isn't meant to hear; he supposes he probably isn't- after all, who knows how long he's been out for. Worry is seen deep into the tone of the people above him, his friends, and he wonders despite himself how he brings himself to be so selfish. So heartless. 

 

They miss Laurens too, he knew. God did they miss him. He could hear Lafayette crying to himself on nights when he believes Alexander to be asleep- Hercules too, even. He has heard the two whisper to one another about loss and about moving on, but he has heard the tears and sobs and hitched promises. But he knew they were trying to keep it quiet, trying to strong for Alexander, oh little Alexander who has seen so much trauma in his years and who has been slandered and hurt and misgendered over and over and over again. Little Alexander always on the verge of tears, of falling apart. And here he is, proving them all right. 

 

He lets out another sob, more subdued, more of an elongated whine far in the back of his throat- it's something of an apology, although the words are muffled and lost in translation. He presses his face harder against the body holding his. He feels bad about the tears for a moment, but then he is being set down on something soft and warm; plush.

 

A bed. Not his own- his own bed is far from familiar to him now. No, this one smells nice, and it's too warm, too soft, too delicate. He doesn't think on it long. He is laid down on his side on top of a chest- something strong and warm and flat. He reaches out blindly in search of something solid and comforting, finding an arm. He is being shushed now, fingers brushing against his face as another body comes up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. Holding him, keeping him secure.

He is surrounded by warmth, by lean arms and torsos and whispered endearments and promises. Everything is okay, we've got you, everything's going to be alright. Close your eyes. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep. 

 

They'll talk about it in the morning.

 

 


End file.
